


heaven.png

by sakuraba



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Light BDSM, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 05:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuraba/pseuds/sakuraba
Summary: Riku comes back from a gravure shoot in a good mood.





	heaven.png

**Author's Note:**

> this is an unsatisfying disaster but it's the end of the semester and sometimes you just need to be horny with strangers on the internet
> 
> (takes place some time circa the end of part 3; i subscribe firmly to natural age progression with regards to canon events, so iori's about 19-20 and riku's 20-21.)

This is the one-hundredth time Riku tries it:

He's somehow managed to find his way into Iori's lap, the weight of post-shoot dripping from both their fingertips. Something about gravure shoots always gets Riku a little drunk -- if not on the usual performance high, then on the sheer amount and intensity of attention on him, on making him into art. Walking into the dorms has him feeling appropriately haloed, a firefly nimbus leaking off every inch of him, and he's pointedly aware of the fact that Iori can see it too. He'd certainly been staring enough.

The fact that they'd let him keep the outfit... helps.

“Iori.” His voice is low and breathy, sultry in a way he’s never heard from his own mouth before. He thinks, for just a smug split second, that he sounds much more like Tenn in one of his TV dramas. “Do you wanna take my panties off?”

Iori chokes.

Laughing just a little, Riku kicks one stockinged leg over another. Pops his lips softly, lets the strawberry lip balm smell waft over the swell of Iori’s cheek. “You don’t have to be shy, Izumi- _san_ ,” he says softly, and lets his breath spill hot and slow down Iori’s neck. “Aren’t you gonna make me a star?”

“I hardly see, Nanase-san,” Iori says from between his teeth, “How that has anything to do with your… present state.” He's stiff as a board and twice as feeble under the weight of Riku in his lap, and Riku feels magic in his fingertips, how they bring Iori to his knees. he wants to make Iori’s composure snap, wants Iori to snarl and grab him by the hips and _make him behave._ If, of course, Iori has it in him.

Only one way to find out, of course. “Shouldn’t we as close as possible? Shouldn't we know–-” He feels a little silly for the act, but in a nice way, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he presses his mouth to Iori’s throat, it’s with uncharacteristic precision. “–- _everything_ about each other?”

And Iori lifts him with a start, fingers catching between the hems of his skirt and stockings.

* * *

 

This is the first time Iori tries it:

He moves slowly, for all intents and purposes – like he’s moving through ocean waves. Water-logged and soaked in sun, like that, so Riku can slow him down and play him back and stop him at any individual frame he wants.

But he doesn’t want, apparently. instead, he leans into Iori’s hand where it finds purchase in his hair, even as it tugs hard enough to sting his scalp. “Iori,” he says, eyes glinting even in the lowlight. “ _Harder_.”

Riku’s expression melts beautifully when Iori’s hand twists, challenge to thrill to bliss in a ripple. Slowly, carefully, Iori gets up onto his knees, guides Riku into a turn that ends with his face pressed into the window pane. Riku is beautiful, and the movements of his body are beautiful all the more when guided by Iori’s hands, lotus stems tied into bows tied into hands behind his back; Iori’s hand stays steady in his hair, mathematical in timing and pressure. “Nanase-san,” he says. Then, tentatively: “You really are easy, aren’t you?”

The bow of Riku’s back is a wonder to behold, an arc of riptide racing shore-ward. (Iori doesn't miss the way his skirt licks upward, the spare millimeter of exposed thigh.) He’s fogging up the glass already, all warm breath and moth’s-wing lashes, and even with his cheek all pressed up against the window he tries for a response. “That’s what you wanted, right?” he says. He’s panting like a dog. “For me to be Iori’s personal whore.”

And that. That ignites something primal in his gut, something hot and venomous and intense. It’s unsettling, honestly, that something like that exists inside him in the first place – that he, of all people, has the capacity to feel that _much,_ and that _quickly._ Something that makes him want to throw Riku to his bed and make him scream, make him forget his own name, make him forget _every_ name that isn’t Iori’s own. Or, in so many words: it scares him.

But Riku must sense his hesitation, the lax of the hand in his hair, because he shifts just enough to get Iori’s attention. “I want it too,” he says fervently. “Want to be your toy, I-o-ri. Want Iori to take care of me however he wants, any time he wants–-”

“Nanase-san.” He yanks back on his hair, just enough to make his back bow further, and Riku _keens._ It's so easy to lean over and press his mouth just below Riku’s ear, bite down hard on the soft, pale skin there. It's like a lightning rod in his chest, sparking and fizzing at the first sign of grey. “If you’re going to act like a bitch in heat, you should at least learn to bend over like one.”

A shudder makes its way down Riku’s body in waves, and–-

“You like this,” Iori breathes, hypnotized.

“I do.” And he sounds _ruined,_ ruined despite the fact that Iori hasn't even touched him, and Iori wants to unravel him, take him apart only to put him back together lovingly and carefully and perfectly. “I do I do I do, _Iori_ –-”

It's maddening how much he loves this. It’s absurd, absolutely ridiculous, how much he loves hearing his name like this from Riku’s lips, how much he wants to hold him close and wrap around him and keep him safe, and keep him, keep him for as long as he can. In that moment he knows, doubtlessly and fiercely, that he'd do anything Riku wanted, so long as it meant making him this happy.

* * *

 

This is... shit, maybe the fourth time they've tried it?

And it’s –- perfect, the way it always is, how Iori has him bent over and split open on his cock, stretched and stuffed like he’s bursting. The shaking in his thighs rolls all the way up to his lip, catches violently on his teeth; his nails scrabble messily against Iori's back. “Iori,” he says, breathless, like it’s punched out of him. It’s almost unconscious. All he can really focus on is keeping himself upright, on not being too loud.

"Good." And it's sweet that Iori tries to be mean to him, like he knows he likes, it really is, but it always falls apart right around here, when Iori's all the way inside him and trembling with the effort to keep still. The hand on his face is wavering. "You're so good, Nanase-san."

He sticks his tongue out good-naturedly even as his insides go to buttercream. "Iori.  _Move_."

“Y-- are you sure?”

“Aren’t _you?”_ he asks, and grins, tugs him up to kiss. Bounces back a little against Iori's cock just to feel his breath get locked up in his body. When he pulls back, Riku bites his lip, slides his hands up his stockings to toy with the skirt pooling around him. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Iori? Don’t you want to fill me up, make me forget my own name?”

The world spins.

 

("Nanase-san... You don't have to return this outfit, do you?"

Riku kicks him.)


End file.
